Part and Parcel
by thisisforyou
Summary: He has his spies everywhere. The next in my completely accidental series of different takes on Mycroft.


**A/N: I'm not entirely sure how it's happened, but this has apparently become a small series of Mycroft explorations. The first was cutesie-Mycroft, in my fic **_**Bold Stripe**_**, the second, downright-creepy-Mycroft in chapter 4 (and continued second-hand in chapter 5) of my fic **_**Twist of the Knife**_**, and this is annoyingly-loose-with-the-surveillance-equipment-Mycroft. Would appreciate feedback on all three, if anyone's got the time. **

**-for you!**

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><p>It's easy to become paranoid when you know you're being watched.<p>

When you know your own government surveillance status (Grade 3, Active) you find yourself checking each new room and side-street for security cameras and restraining the mad urge to pull the finger at the mad official you know is watching, typing meaningless notes in a file somewhere for later review.

The first time Doctor John H. Watson found the camera in his bedroom by accident when he was looking for a postcard Harry had sent him with her phone number on it. Perhaps he had thought that once he had casually dropped that first camera into the beaker of sulphuric acid that had been sitting on the kitchen table for weeks – Sherlock had only just managed to stop him tasting it – whoever it was would take the hint and give up.

The second time he didn't find the camera at all; he'd been in his bedroom alone, about to begin a personal activity that one usually likes to conduct in private, when his cellphone beeped beside his head.

_I wouldn't do that if I were you.  
><em>_Mycroft Holmes_

Needless to say said personal activity was suspended in favour of a fevered search of the room. The assumption that a certain MH would leave off a little after he'd found the camera and jumped on it with gusto was, after the first incident, definitely a little foolish.

The third time Sherlock had warned him. He'd been about to retire for the night when his flatmate had mumbled from the couch, "Oh, and watch out, John, Mycroft's people came through again today. There'll probably be a camera in your bedroom." Sure enough, there are only so many places one can hide a camera – no matter how small – in the bedroom of someone as militarily fastidious as John Watson, so he found it and in a spate of cheap humour, flushed it down the toilet. After that he checked every night before going to bed, just in case.

The first time he'd stretched half-naked in front of his window before spotting the person with binoculars on the roof opposite he'd got the fright of his life. He'd given a yelp of fright so loud that Sherlock had come running, also less than fully-clothed, and Mycroft had rung ten minutes later asking smugly why they'd been shirtless in the same room at seven-thirty in the morning, to which he'd been given a very shirty answer indeed, if you'll pardon the pun.

The second time he'd jumped a little, but limited his vocal response to a clearly-shaped expletive and a glimpse of his middle finger. He considered writing _Piss Off Mycroft _on a giant sheet of paper and holding it up to the window, but decided that was childish and immature and suggested that he had something to hide.

That's the main reason he puts up with it, really. Because if he gets too offended the government official following their every move will think he's being defensive and probe even further. Sometimes he wishes he'd taken Mycroft's offer that first time they'd met and actually be _paid_ for the extensive efforts he takes to protect his private life, but he is not the sort of man who backs down, and each time he finds a camera or a watchman or a microphone it merely reinforces his resolve not to react at all.

It was when he'd found the camera in _Sarah's_ bedroom that he'd put his foot down. Literally. He'd had a bit of a tanty, actually, possibly sworn a little while Sarah sat on her bed quite patiently, apparently not in the least frightened at either the fact that there was a camera in her room or the raging mess her boyfriend had become on finding it. After he'd scoured the rest of the house and found two more cameras, he stormed off and yelled at Sherlock – which was rather unjustified, and for which he eventually apologised – for the positively inexcusable behaviour of his brother.

Sherlock, of course, agreed, and in due course complained to said brother, not least because Detective Inspector Lestrade and Mrs Hudson had also found two hidden cameras in their flats and he was sick of people complaining to _him_.

But when they leave the flat there is always a lurking awareness of one or two people who perhaps trail behind them for a street or two longer than necessary, a camera that had been pointing one way when they entered the street but points another when they leave it, the prolonged stares of shopkeepers and cabbies and passers-by.

He has his spies everywhere.

John Watson often wonders what it is with the Holmeses and privacy invasion. If it isn't one brother jumping on him at three am and demanding to be entertained – no, _not_ like that, don't laugh – it's the other texting him at awkward times and giving him dating advice.

_You're bungling it, Doctor Watson. Just kiss her already.  
>M<em>_ycroft Holmes_

Sometimes he is incredibly tempted to pack it all in, but as Queen Victoria once said, _we are not interested in the possibilities of defeat_, so he tries his best to ignore it. The fact that he _had_, in fact, just leaned over the table in the Spanish restaurant and kissed Sarah was inconsequential and nothing to do with Mycroft Holmes whatsoever; he'd been planning to do that anyway.

No, life was much better without Mycroft's influence, he knows that for a fact. Things were so much simpler when he could use a public lavatory without worrying about the bloke in the cubicle next door who's been in there for longer than perhaps necessary. But he won't go so far as to wish he'd never met Sherlock, and the two seem to come part and parcel, so when he finally finds the microphone hidden at the bottom of the regularly-replenished jar of teabags – John, Mycroft has learned, says some very interesting things before the first cup of tea in the morning, not all of which make coherent sense – he utters no more than a pre-emptive _oh, for God's sake, Mycroft, _before throwing it at the back of Sherlock's inert head and stomping back upstairs.

Life is many things, but it is never perfect, and bewailing its imperfections does not help one in the slightest.


End file.
